


Paid Criminals (What a laugh)

by HamandChiise



Series: Junker Trash [1]
Category: overwatch
Genre: Best Friends, Gen, basically just cuddling, casual touching, if u squint, junkers being junk, or roadrat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8444116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamandChiise/pseuds/HamandChiise
Summary: "Roadhog found out that just touching the other junker was a really good way of grounding him or keeping him quiet. A simple touch when Junkrat was going to repeat himself stalled the lad’s thought process enough to bring him back to the present instead of another loop through the plan."--------------------Junkrat and Roadhog have a special way of doing things. Many don't get that, but that's ok by them. This is for NaNoWriMo, except I'm not writing a novel, I'm writing fanfic. Help me.





	

There wasn’t anything for it- sometimes the Junkers were trapped in pathetically tiny hideouts as the whole damn city was out on the hunt for them. They were in dingy alleys, crammed behind dumpsters and barely able to move- or in long abandoned sheds half-dilapidated and on verge of collapse. Sometimes, they were even in the backs of transport trucks near the scene of the crime, sequestered in the heat and dark as chaos erupted around them.

During these times, it was essential to remain quiet and still, something that Jamison Fawkes, aka Junkrat, was usually incapable of doing. He was perpetually vibrating with energy, eager to crow and howl about the beauty of the explosion or how much haul they were making off with. Even if things went poorly, there was a steady flow of obscenities peeling from between his jagged teeth as they retreated from the heat and collapsing architecture.

At first, Roadhog had tried whatever he could think of to silence Junkrat. The usual threats did nothing to settle him, and violence only seemed to put the demolitions expert into a retaliatory mood, scratching and play scrapping and nearly costing them their lives as they were quickly discovered.

But one day, after a particularly nasty foul-up, Junkrat was curled up against Roadhog, soaking in his warmth and shaking as the giant Junker finished up tugging shrapnel out of the lithe Aussie. There had been metal that had been blown free from an Omnic going in fifteen different directions that had caught them both, but ‘Rat had taken the worst of it, along his shoulders and back.

Roadhog’s hook and large fingers had to dig out the lengthy and jagged pieces, and while Junkrat had sank his sharp teeth into the fatty muscle of Hog’s thigh a few times, he’d kept quiet. That only showed how bad he felt, since he didn’t have the usual energy to yammer on or gripe about the pain. But after the last pieces were tugged free and the wounds stuffed with gauze until they could be sewn up later, Roadhog noted Junkrat’s head was in his lap, and absently ran his blood-free hand through the other’s scorched, wild hair, curious about the texture.

Junkrat’s shivering seemed to stop automatically at the gesture, his whole form froze, including his ragged breathing, and he turned an amber eye up to regard Hog, saying nothing. Roadhog’s brow went up behind his mask, but he said nothing as well and continuing to sift through the hair, putting out the smouldering spots and rubbing at the smaller man’s scalp when he could. Junkrat was plaint and still, eventually succumbing to sleep, body too weary to carry on. Roadhog didn’t stop though, feeling his own stress about this clusterfuck of a heist melting away as well. It was more soothing than the pile of loot next to him was, and if the kid kicked the bucket, well- at least he’d have this memory of him before he did.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So while Junkrat did, in fact, make a frustratingly slow and vocal recovery back to full health, Roadhog found out that just touching the other junker was a really good way of grounding him or keeping him quiet. A simple touch when Junkrat was going to repeat himself stalled the lad’s thought process enough to bring him back to the present instead of another loop through the plan. A steadying hand on a shoulder before an explosion earned a grin and one step back, towards the safety of the big man in case something happened (which it rarely did, Junkrat knew his bombs better than his own limbs). But resting or running a hand through the other’s hair by far had the best effect on the younger criminal. He would relax, loose the tension in his shoulders and become near putty in those large hands. It would keep him quiet better than anything, so when tensions were high or discretion necessary, Roadhog’s fingers were slipped against the smaller skull to rub gently. 

It had become something of a tipping point. When before, the pair of Junkers kept a good bit of distance between one another, now that Roadhog had began to touch Junkrat, the other had begun to seek out and reciprocate the affection. Casual touches, a pat or a slap or even an adjustment of a piece of armor were now things Roadhog was experiencing in turn for every thing he initiated. Perhaps the kid was just touch starved, maybe he’d never had a speck of affection in his entire life- seemed pretty damn sad. 

But what was even sadder was how much Roadhog looked forward to the touches in return. Each small thing earned a smile, unseen under the mask, even if it only lasted for mere moments. Soon enough, the touches became just another part of their routine, careful palms trailing over healing skin, a cautioning touch or enthusiastic pinch… a leaping hug that nearly brought the both of them tumbling to the ground as one half cackled quietly... it was just who they were, another layer to their agreement. Junkrat and Roadhog.

Unfortunately, many didn’t see it as something so simple. When they had been “recruited” (see- press-ganged under extreme duress) to become vigilantes to fight “alongside” (see: fighting rogue omnics because blowing scrap and making mayhem is always fun) Overwatch, the other members of the organization didn’t understand them.

They had been given a wide berth and constant surveillance until Hog was pretty sure they let up only because Rat had annoyed them into leaving the pair alone. He’d been even more unbearable than normal in that time, yammering on about, well, nothing in particular and asking all manner of questions to their escort until they had stopped constantly lurking. The bigger junker was unsure of who was more tense, the pair of Australians or the base as they tried to get accustomed to them. He was grateful once the constant body faded to a trailing presence and finally away altogether. After that point, Rat was back to his old self, looking at potential heist locations and being the familiar brand of annoying he’d come to appreciate.

But after they had been accepted, begrudgingly, the constant affection they gave one another went on as if nothing happened, no matter who was there. They sat pressed side to side in the mess, battles were smattered with touches and protective grabs, it was just business as usual- only they got paid for it. (Paid criminals, what a laugh.) But people seemed to want to constantly chime in on it. Hog had forgotten what it was like to be surrounded by people that didn’t want to kill you first, hunt for your valuables second and possibly eat you third. No, these people wanted to “get to know you” and that meant becoming very nosy, very quickly. 

It was grating on his nerves, the constant looks, the well meaning nudges and pointed reminders of where Junkrat was whenever he was alone, the comments on “how long had they been involved” that could be taken to mean professionally except for the ridiculous tone behind it. He was unsure how Junkrat was even handling himself so well, answering any strange questions about them with a brief sort of honesty that meant the conversations didn’t go anywhere fast. 

Eventually, Roadhog couldn’t help his curiosity. One day when they were lounging in their quarters on the bed, Hog was lying on his back, propped up by a few pillows and the lanky Australian was atop him, splayed out on his massive gut. Junkrat didn’t weigh enough to be an impediment to his breathing, the only reason Hog let him do it. Hog’s hand had gone up on instinct to the other’s wiry hair and was carding through it. Roadhog spoke up, voice rumbling through his belly as he did so.

“Everyone in our business- why aren’t you annoyed?”

The younger man’s firey eyes opened and a brow furrowed. 

“Eh, they don’t mean nothing by it- they just don’t get it. This place is all about teamwork and working together, but they don’t got the first hint of what it’s like to survive together. Put one a these lot in our shoes- all three of em- and they wouldn’t last an afternoon!”

Roadhog seemed to consider this and gave a grunt, not quite getting it. But Junkrat didn’t seem to acknowledge this as he had kept going,

“So just because they ain’t got a grain of understanding doesn’t mean they don’t wanna understand, just means they can’t. They can’t get us, because the only ones that’ll really get us… ARE us!” He broke off into a brief giggle, but composed himself. 

“Bad way a puttin it, I s’pose. But it’s true. Anyone can go on not understanding, least this lot’s trying to. So I can’t be sore with them thinking what they do. They all think the only reason we’re involved is money, or that we’re, you know- together. But it ain’t like that at all! I don’t need to root around with you for you to be mine, Roadie. Same for you, goes both ways. 50/50.”

That statement earned a startled laugh and a hand curling tighter in Jamie’s hair and around his waist, tugging him close. “Yeah.” He agreed. Who would have thought Junkrat could have wisdom beyond his years- to be able to capture it so well. It was just who they were. That was all.

Until Junkrat waggled his eyebrows salaciously, “A course, we could always root… give me your pork sausage, Hoggie my dear.” That terrible line send Hog turning over to unceremoniously spill Junkrat to the floor, where he cackled loudly, unaffected by the abrupt trip to the ground.

“That’s cold, mate. Thought you loved me.” He crooned, mournful. Hog just settled onto his back and Jamison perched atop him, like nothing had ever happened, still giggling off and on. Hog smiled under the mask. He did love this idiot. He really did. 

“Just shut up, Jamison.” He offered, instead.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote about these goobers because I love them and there is a lot of good RoadRat stuff but not as much of the guys being dudes and just enjoying the casual touches. Plus the shit I write has a lot to do with the idiocy I get into with my own Junkrat. Lov u, trash child.
> 
> Thanks for reading it, I'm happy you got this far.


End file.
